


Take Five

by MintChocolateLeaves



Series: Mint's Long-Fics [13]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank Anderson, BAMF Connor, Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Role Reversal, police politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintChocolateLeaves/pseuds/MintChocolateLeaves
Summary: “Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank says, as he walks up towards the man. The man does not turn from where he is looking up at the fish, although the slight tilt of his head indicates that he’s listening. “My name is Hank. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”--Or: Following a spread of deviancy cases, RK800 model, Hank, is assigned to work cases with Lieutenant Connor Anderson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If Markus can fling himself off a crane into the depths of Jericho, then I might as well be strong enough to fling myself into the DBH fandom.
> 
> The title relates to a song under the same name, by Dave Brubeck. Part one's title is a lyric from the song 'This Masquerade' by the Carpenters. They're both jazz - I've been listening to jazz recently. Blame Hank. 
> 
> I've not decided on ships, so for now we're going to lean on the gen option. I'll let you all know if I decide on any ships. Until then, I hope you all enjoy.

**Part One**

_‘This lonely game’_

 

 

The Lieutenant is not at his post.

Perhaps it’s only to be expected, when considering the signed hour sheets of the man, the shift timings that he works each week, but there is something inconvenient about needing to investigate without the other half of the investigative team being present.

Still, Hank – an android of the RK800 model – simply needs to consider the lieutenant’s lifestyle and then he’ll be capable of tracking him down. Phone calls, while more practical that travelling around the city hoping to track him down on what evidence lies in his personnel files, have proved useless at this point.

Either his phone is out of battery, or the phone calls are being ignored.

Looking at the recent case history and the man’s prior psych evaluation, it’s 66% more likely that his phone has zero charge. He’s going to have to find him then – it’s the only way that Hank will be able to solve the murder that’s occurred tonight.

Asking around the precinct hadn’t offered any answers. From what information he’s gathered on the lieutenant so far, he’s not the most social, is introverted and either unwilling or incapable of creating more concrete social bonds.

Hopefully this won’t lead to any difficulties with his mission.

Hank accesses his databases instead. The lieutenant is not at home, within his knowledge, since his bike is still in the precinct car park and he lives on the other side of town, so he must be in the area somewhere.

_> L o a d i n g_

_> 7 results. Search criteria: Quiet / Open late_

Out of the results that he recovers, Hank narrows the seven results down to five. Two of the areas encourages illicit activities, actions that a quick diagnostic deems unlikely for a young, upcoming lieutenant to partake in.

He finds the man in an aquarium.

It’s one of the quieter aquarium’s, all natural and lacking in customers. It’s why it’s open later – despite the harsh opinions towards androids, there’s still a large demand for android zoos and aquariums. They can fit a larger number of animals for viewings and there’s less ethical queries about whether animals should be contained.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank says, as he walks up towards the man. The man does not turn from where he is looking up at the fish, although the slight tilt of his head indicates that he’s listening. “My name is Hank. I’m the android sent by cyberlife.”

Lieutenant Anderson turns now. Hank uses this moment to run a scan, processing the necessary information on the man as he waits for a response. To the side of the man’s face appears a file, the words ready for him to process.

Connor Anderson. Born in 2015, leaving him twenty-three years of age. One of the youngest lieutenants to receive a promotion to such likening. Running a further search, he scans the internet for any reasoning. Fast track promotions had been handed to the man after several break through cases including red ice, smuggling and android trafficking.

Hank estimates that there is a 34% possibility that his LED is flashing a faint yellow at the thought of android trafficking. After a quick diagnostic of his internal processing however, he realises that it has returned to a steady, light blue.

“What does an android want with me?” Lieutenant Anderson asks. Despite the social integration programming that has been installed into him, Hank cannot read the emotion in the man’s response: The only data that comes up is ‘zero response’.

“It is not within my programming to want anything,” Hank responds. Still no response from the lieutenant, something that leaves Hank pressing his lips together. His LED flickers yellow in confusion. “However, I have been assigned to work a murder case alongside you, Lieutenant.”

The man leans back, pushes a hand into his pocket and brings out a pack of cigarettes. Hank identifies them as the Marlboro brand, the pack red and white, with a banner of ‘smoking kills’ across the top. The message goes ignored however, as the lieutenant pushes the top up and deposits a cigarette with a flick of his wrist.

Depositing it into his mouth, Anderson says. “As of this afternoon I don’t have any murder cases.”

There is no defensiveness, no tired tone. The man simply states the fact as it is. If Hank were not capable of scanning the lieutenant’s vital systems, assessing that he does in fact have human organs, he’d have to operate under the theory that the Detroit police department has an android for a lieutenant.

“Well,” Hank says, glancing to the corner of his vision, where his mission objectives are being held. The current task: _Investigate murder scene_ , blinks a new subsection beneath it, labelled _arrive at crime scene with Lieutenant._

Anderson’s gaze settles on him, waiting.

“You have been assigned a new case, Lieutenant.” Hank says. “The body was identified in the hour following your leave from the precinct.”

A hum rumbles from the man’s throat. A confirmation that he’s listening, as he leaves behind the fish swimming in their tank. He grabs a lighter from his jacket, a zippo which he flicks open, a small yet steady flame bursting into light.

Hank watches the faint sparks of the smoke that rise from the cigarette that the lieutenant lights. A small red warning flashes before his eyes, _‘smoking is prohibited within this area’,_ but he ignores it.

This does not relate to his mission, and so, there’s no point mentioning it. Instead, he watches as the lieutenant glances towards him, subtle eye movements sizing the android up.

He says, “why is cyberlife sending an android to solve a murder?”

Regardless of his question, the man seems almost to have accepted the situation without any doubts. Hank isn’t sure if this makes him admirable, easily accepting of new situations, or whether it makes him a fool.

He’ll have to hold that idea, wait until he’s got more information to process and theorise then.

“My purpose is to investigate deviants,” Hank says, watching an expression that does not change from blank. It is unnerving, even to him. “Deviants are androids with faulty programming, it is my job to capture and bring them back to cyberlife for disassembly.”

The lieutenant pauses, takes a moment to inhale smoke before nodding. He says, “and this murder case has a suspected deviant?”

He catches on quick. Hank always finds it favourable when the staff he’s assigned to show their own intelligence.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go,” Anderson says. Hank follows behind him, imitating the brisk steps the lieutenant walks with as they make their way outside. He isn’t certain what to say, just yet, and so follows behind without offering any attempts at conversation.

It’s only when they are halfway into their walk back to the police station that Anderson turns to Hank and says, “what’s the address?

Hank blinks. In the time he does so, he gathers the available information he’s been given access to, offering the zip code and street name to the man. Anderson nods, stubs his cigarette out in one of the bins and discards the butt with a flick.

“Although, I do not understand why you require the address Lieutenant,” Hank continues after a moment, “I’m perfectly capable of ordering a self-driving taxi to drive us to the location.”

The lieutenant grabs his phone, pulls it from his pocket. It’s a recent model, although the screen is already littered with scratches. Still, the phone isn’t broken. It lights up as soon as the Lieutenant pushes his thumb down against the power button.

_Software instability ^^_

Hank blinks. He had not expected to be incorrect about the man’s reasons for not answering calls. The man has enough battery to spare – it goes against the information he’d read in the lieutenant’s psychiatric report. It is unusual, Hank is going to have to reanalyse the data at his disposal.

“You can get a taxi sure,” Anderson continues, turning to look at him over his shoulder, “but I’ll head over on my bike.”

Hank does not see the purpose of them both driving in different vehicles. It is not very energy efficient.

“Lieutenant, if I may, that’s not very–”

“I’m riding over,” Anderson says, voice stern. He is unwavering with his conviction, and stares Hank down. It is a testament to his programming that Hank does not turn away. “I’ve got some cases to consider while travelling, so I need the time to focus.”

He is lying.

Hank’s audio processor is high tuned to identify when someone is lying. It detects the slightest abnormalities in sound waves, useful for interrogations of both humans and deviants.

Glancing at the Lieutenant, Hank takes a moment to consider. He hesitates, blinking as he attempts to read the man’s emotional regard towards him.

**Lt. Connor Anderson. Status: Neutral(?)**

Hank blinks, LED shining a bright yellow. He squints, attempts to read the status again.

**StATuS: nEutrAL(?)**

It is too difficult to determine the man’s regard towards him. Hank is simply a machine – it seems that his social understanding programme is not currently efficient. He’ll have to report this to cyberlife.

**StATuS: InDisC3Rn4BLe**

“So,” Anderson continues, offering him a short nod. “I’ll meet you at the crime scene.”

Hank watches him head back into the precinct, watches until the man is out of sight, past the windows and towards the changing rooms where the man is no doubt retrieving his helmet.

The subsection of his current mission objective changes, adjusting to the lieutenant’s words. It now reads: _meet Lieutenant at crime scene._

Hank calls for a taxi.

_Software Instability ^^_

* * *

The Lieutenant is waiting for him when the taxi pulls up to the crime scene. He’s leaning against his bike, just out of the visual range of reporters and the small crowd of nosy onlookers hoping to learn about something _horrible._

Hank does not understand the human want to process horrible things due to curiosity. He supposes this is also the reason why the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’ confuses him as well.

“There you are,” the man says, ignoring the rain that is soaking his jacket. His helmet is already tucked under his arm, water dripping from his nose. His hair is slick – there seems to be no need for hair gel as the lieutenant runs a hand through his hair, brushing away the strands that hang just before his eyes. “Let’s head inside.”

Hank, still unable to read the man’s expression, is uncertain whether he should apologise for the three-minute delay that had occurred due to the lack of foresight into traffic conditions. A lack of tension in the lieutenant’s shoulders however, leaves him under the impression that this is not necessary.

They make their way towards police tape, to the scene that’s been blocked off. It’s not actual tape, the use of such product would be a waste with how many crime scenes the DPD is required to work, but rather, a mirage of colours emulating tape from two small circular devices at either end of the victim’s fence.

The circular devices – halogen transmitters - are old, brought into the force following waste regulations in 2021. Hank pulls up the file on the device, notices the programming integrated that ensures androids cannot pass through.

“Lieutenant–” Hank says.

“Don’t worry,” Anderson says, as he weaves through several reporters, ignoring any comments that are focuses towards them, “I phoned in advance, so the force knew to tweak the transmitters to allow you entry to the scene.”

“I–” Hank does not recall the lieutenant asking for his serial number. It is written across the jacket he’d been issued by cyberlife, yes, but the man had not offered any indication that he had written the eleven-digit code down. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

A small nod.

_“They’re sending a kid to solve this case?”_

_“Mustn’t be a difficult case if they’ve decided to send a fuckin’ newbie to solve it.”_

_“DPD never tells us anything.”_

Hank does not spend much processing power on the muffled conversation spreading through the crowd – it’s not necessary to his mission – but it is impossible to cut it out completely. He saves it to his memory reserves as he contemplates the Lieutenant.

His youthful age within the force causes unease amongst the press. People do not expect him to solve difficult cases at a satisfactory level. It must be frustrating. He tucks the concept away, deciding it might be useful for any further conversations he might have with the man.

“Connor!” Hank turns towards the voice as they head towards the entrance of the house. There is a man – a quick facial analysis scan shows him to be Ben Collins, a detective within the Detroit police – older, with grey hair and a thick moustache.

“Detective Collins,” Anderson responds, as they come to a stop before him. “You’ve stumbled along a case?”

Collins nods. He is more expressive than the lieutenant and offers a smile to the man. It does not go unnoticed, how the detective calls Anderson by his forename, and not his rank.

Friendliness? Or the result of the detective not accepting such a young man as having a rank superior to his own?

Hank is not sure. He adds this to his slow growing list of things to contemplate regarding Lieutenant Anderson and awaits the briefing the detective will no doubt offer.

“Of course,” Collins nods his head. Looks down at the tablet in his hands. It’s got the basic information of the scene, something Hank will have to upload into his database as soon as he gains access to the police archives. He glances back up as he processes Hank’s presence.

“You got yourself an android, Connor?” He questions. His expression doesn’t exactly… sour… but it shifts to something a little less open than before. “Must be a generational thing…”

The Lieutenant takes a moment to process Collins’ expression. Then, he lifts a hand, waving it towards Hank and says, “This is Hank. He’s the android sent by cyberlife.”

Collins goes to open his mouth, no doubt a comment that will fall into anti-android semantics, but the words do not come. Instead, Anderson takes another step forward.

“Is there somewhere dry I can leave my helmet?” He says. Collins points towards a dry patch on the porch outside, beside one of the officers keeping watch of the scene. Connor nods, deposits the helmet there. “Now, the briefing?”

Collins does not seem perturbed by the impatience, takes it in stride and heads into the building. The Lieutenant follows behind, and behind him, Hank listens in.

The victim: Carlos Ortiz.

Found dead by the tenant’s landlord following a lack of rent payments. The man had been planning on handing over an eviction notice and had found a dead body instead.

Androids do not come equipped with olfactory sensors, it is not deemed important for their functionality, and upon the first sight of the victim, Hank is almost… relieved.

He offers a side glance to the Lieutenant. A slight twitching of his nose is the only indication that he is affected by the smell.

Collins’ looks back at them, pulls a face of disgust and says, “smells pretty horrible doesn’t it. Was worse before we opened the windows.”

“Decomposing bodies do tend to bring discomfort,” Anderson says, before falling back into silence, listening to the continued briefing. From the state of the body – maggots writhing beneath the skin, flies buzzing around the victim – there’s an estimate of the victim having been killed three weeks before.

From the date of the murder, Hank can see the probability of incarcerating the deviant dwindling down. The number is currently at a low, 13%. Not that the number matters at this time – he will wait until he has gathered all evidence and judge the chance of success afterwards.

“Alright,” Collins says, as he nods his head, glancing between the Lieutenant and the android. “I can’t stand this smell for much longer. I’m going out for a bit of fresh air.”

Lieutenant Anderson does not react to the loss of a colleague, opting instead to kneel, eyes sizing up the body. Hank follows suit, analysing the wounds – twenty-four stab wounds across the abdomen and chest.

“Twenty-eight stab wounds to the chest,” Hank says, glancing towards the Lieutenant, offering the information. “Most of which with a width of 3.5cm.”

Anderson nods his head. “Most likely a kitchen knife. You don’t have to investigate with me, I appreciate that your processing speed is faster than mine.”

Hank takes it as an invitation to work faster. He stands, glances towards the wall, the words ‘I am alive’ painted in the victim’s blood. Each letter is symmetrical, and while a human could mimic the font – _cyberlife sans_ – with enough practise, or even with a stencil, the blood has dried in a manner than indicates the words were written in a rush.

No human could rush and write these words so quickly. The evidence points to the likelihood of the murderer being a deviant. Not that this conclusion is surprising.

Next, he looks for the murder weapon. It is five feet from the body, blood stains on the floor. There are no fingerprints on the knife, further solidifying his deviant theory. A quick analysis of the blood concludes that the DNA belongs to Carlos Ortiz.

(Anderson seems to watch during the analysis, but he does not comment, instead, turns back to his own assessment of the case. Hank is not certain how to react – his programming is equipped to explain when faced with disgust. He is not programmed to respond to silence.)

There are traces of red ice on a cabinet – _regular drug use? Explanation for history of aggravated assault? –_ and a flyer for a sex club – the Eden Club - on another. Bloodstains on the carpet leading from the kitchen leaves him with the conclusion that the murder had originated in another room of the house, leading into living room.

The evidence sends him into the kitchen. The walls are slick with dried blood, Ortiz’ fingerprints pressed against the wall. Hank blinks, focuses on a fallen chair, and more blood stains on the floor.

There is a knife missing from the kitchen wall. Hank concludes that the murder weapon is from here – not a premeditated murder then. Instead, it is the fault of a crime of passion. Not that Hank would have concluded anything other than a crime of passion, with the amount of stab wounds the victim suffered.

What would lead to an android, no, a _deviant,_ committing murder in the heat of the moment then? Hank predicts emotional shock must be a factor, but until he has all the evidence to reconstruct the crime, he shouldn’t make any preconceived assumptions.

Towards the corner of the kitchen. A metal bat lies on the floor. There are traces of thirium on the edge of the bat.

Hank can almost see the crime in the back of his mind. It is as if he can rewind the crime in his mind, like a video tape and watch it in real time, watch the crime as it escalates. There are bits missing: The exact description of the model, although judging from the entry wounds he can predict the android’s height is roughly two or three inches higher than the victim.

He could head back to the Lieutenant now, explain his theory on the crime, but there is still potential evidence to be found, and so Hank makes his way back into the bathroom.

_Ra9._

Hank does not know what the writing means, but it is repeated obsessively enough on the wall, leading him to believe that it’s important to the case. Beneath it, there is a small statuette, made from clay in the outline of a human being.

An offering?

He cannot be certain.

It’s all the evidence that he can find. Hank nods his head, decides it is now imperative that he head back to the lieutenant and report his findings.

* * *

He does not have to go far to find the Lieutenant.

Hank steps out of the bathroom, and the Lieutenant is there, knelt, glancing at a wall. He turns at the sound of Hank’s footsteps, points towards the wall and says, “your processing skills are superior to mine. There used to be a ladder here, how long since it was moved?”

Looking now, he can see watermarks on the wall, the outline of a ladder. It’s not something that’s easy to spot, not immediately identifiable and Hank finds himself impressed by the Lieutenant’s observation skills.

Then, he realises the man is waiting on a response, and he focuses on the wall.

“The evidence suggests nineteen days.” Hank says. After a brief pause, in which the Lieutenant nods to himself, almost as if he’d confirmed his _own_ theory, Hank continues, “I think I understand what happened here Lieutenant.”

Anderson’s gaze flitters up to the attic, contemplative, before turning back to the android. He nods, “alright, talk me through your theory.”

“It started in the kitchen,” Hank says, leading the Lieutenant back towards more tangible evidence. He points towards the bat. “The victim attacked the android with the bat. In response to the emotional shock, the deviant grabbed the knife, and stabbed the victim.”

Lieutenant Anderson nods his head. He says, “I believe so too. The android acted in self-defence.”

“Deviants are known to emulate human emotions. They don’t really feel them, but rather experience something familiar to them, when their programs become faulty.” Hank says, “I believe the deviant felt something akin to fear and acted to preserve its safety.”

He is not certain whether the man is impressed or not. Either way, Hank continues with his explanation of the case.

“The victim then fled to the living room,” Hank continues, and he leads the Lieutenant into the living room, glancing at the bloodied carpet. “They struggled here, before the victim continued to flee.”

The lieutenant does not offer a word. It is unnerving, but Hank supposes he’d interrupt if he were to spot any inconsistencies in Hank’s theory and the evidence they’ve been presented with.

He points towards the couch, “the victim fell here, shuffled back towards the wall, where he was then stabbed.”

A pause. Anderson glances from the body to him. Then, he waits. Hank is not certain what the man is waiting for. He raises an eyebrow at the Lieutenant, only to receive no leeway in the man’s expression.

“…Twenty-eight times.” He supplies, as if this might be the information he is missing.

Anderson blinks, the same stoic expression. He says, “You said you figured out what happened here.”

“I did.” Hank says.

“No,” Anderson replies, glances around the room. “You figured out how the victim was murdered. You’re missing the information on what happened afterwards with the killer.”

_Software instability ^^^_

Hank’s LED only flashes yellow for a second, but he knows that the Lieutenant spots the temporary change. He can feel brown eyes lingering on his figure, even as he turns back towards the body of Carlos Ortiz.

“I apologise,” Hank says. “If you would give me a few more minutes, I will analyse the deviant’s movements following the murder.”

His mission object shifts from _investigate murder scene_ to _find deviant._

“I doubt he would have gone far,” Anderson says now, almost a passing thought. “He was attacked with the bat, right? Injured androids are noticeable. It would have been reported if people had seen it.”

Hank considers this, and only comes back with one option to investigate. The deviant was injured, and so, there should be a trace of thirium, the life source of androids, for him to follow.

He scans the room, searches for any traces of blue blood and comes up with a small trail that leads back into the kitchen. As he follows the trail, he hears Anderson’s voice clear, as if the rest of the detectives and forensics team are silent as they proceed with their own work.

“Detective Miller,” Anderson says – previous scans declare he is mentioning Chris Miller, a young officer, although the Lieutenant’s senior by six years – “get narcotics on the phone. I want that red ice tested. Also, there’s a flyer for a club, Eden club, I want surveillance on the area. That’s the second time we’ve come across an ice user with that flyer, it might be a hotspot for dealers.”

Even from the kitchen, Detective Miller’s response is clear. He says, “of course, Lieutenant.”

The thirium trial leads through the kitchen and down towards the bathroom, although it does not lead _into_ the bathroom. Hank supposes it’s possible that the android stemmed any bleeding at this point, although it seems unlikely.

He glances towards the wall opposite the bathroom, where the Lieutenant had spotted the missing ladder. What would the deviant need with a ladder, following the murder. The only reasonable answer was to climb.

He glances up at the attic. There is a handprint of thirium on the slab keeping the attic closed. With the ladder gone, it would be reasonable to conclude that the deviant climbed into the attic, bringing the ladder up and closing the entrance again.

Hank decides that he should check the attic out. He grabs one of the undamaged chairs from the kitchen, and places it beneath the entrance to the attic.

“What’re you think you’re doing?” One of the detectives ask, voice clipped. Hank is about to explain that he’s simply going to check on a theory, when the Lieutenant’s voice calls from another room.

“Let him do his investigation, Detective. We allow you to do yours without questioning each action. Even if he’s an android, you’ll allow him the same courtesy.”

Even now, Hank can’t read any emotions in the voice. There is no waver, simply an even tone bordering on authoritative. There are however, emotions in the detective’s voice, as he mutters under his breath.

_“Fucking prick. Thinking he can order us around.”_

It is not within the scope of his mission for Hank to emphasise that Lieutenant Anderson is of a superior rank, and as such, has the rights to order the detectives, so he doesn’t. But he wants to.

Wants? It is not within his programming to want anything.

Instead of saying anything, he climbs the chair, pushing his way up into the attic. It is dark – no light other than the steady blue of his LED. If a human officer were to try to navigate, Hank concludes that their visual centres would not be able to spot any sign of a deviant, and as such, success rates would falter.

With his own sensors making it easier to see and analyse, Hank pushes forwards, further into the depths of the attic. While he could analyse for thirium, there is no need. He follows footprints instead, areas around the floorboards where dust has been disturbed.

As he nears the far-right corner of the attic, his optical processors capture the movement of something running towards the left. He follows it, slow with his footsteps to ensure they remain quiet.

The deviant is here, he’s certain.

Turning the corner, he continues pausing at more footsteps. With how packed the attic is, Hank doubts the deviant will keep running. It will eventually reach a dead end, forced to retrace its previous path.

Hank remains routed where he is. He waits.

Thirteen seconds pass before the deviant rushes back to the small, ample walkway at the back of the attic. It is covered in blood, that of it’s owner. The blood soaks the shirt it wears – the model number is printed like a name badge across it’s right collarbone – and it’s LED flashes a bright, violent red.

Mission successful: _Find deviant._

“I was just defending myself,” the deviant says, and it turns his head as if it is confused. “I didn’t want to die.”

Hank decides against reminding the deviant that it is not capable of dying, since it is not alive. Instead he says, “we will take you in for questioning now.”

The deviant’s stress levels increase. It rises to 36%, not high enough for Hank to extract a confession now – not that he can, he imagines the humans will want video evidence of such words – but higher than the average stress level of an android.

“Please don’t.” The deviant begs. “They’ll dismantle me – I’ll – _they will kill me._ Just leave me here.”

Hank’s processors offer the evidence of the Lieutenant leaning by the removed ladder. Of the man glancing up towards the attic. He says, “Lieutenant Anderson already knows you are up here. Leaving you here is not an option.”

A strangled _please_ is the only thing the deviant says as Hank leans forward, heavy grip on the deviant’s arm.

As they approach the exit from the attic, Hank calls, “Lieutenant, I’ve apprehended the deviant.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely surprised by the reception the first chapter of this fic recieved. Thanks for giving my indulgent fic both reviews and kudos. In thanks, I present you with part two! It's 2 a.m, and so now, watch as I yeet myself into the realms of sleep.
> 
> Part two's title is based off the lyrics from 'Guilty' by Ella Fitzgerald. More jazz. I guess I'm a fan of jazz now.
> 
> And I've decided. This fics going to be completely gen. I'll leave my ships for the other DBH fic I'm working on.

**Part Two**

_‘If it’s a crime, then I’m guilty’_

By the time they reach the interrogation room it is almost midnight.

The deviant is led into a large, yet empty room, handcuffed to the table with steel alloy handcuffs, strengthened metal to ensure it cannot escape. The room is 9’ x 13’, larger than Hank would consider for extracting information, but he concludes this might factor into criminal psychology.

Place a suspect in a room that’s large, and empty, and it raises the likelihood that the criminal will feel small. Hank does not know how this psychology translates from humans to deviants, but the deviant seems to sink into it’s chair, optical sensors trying to size up the entire room.

It’s LED remains red.

“We’ll extract a confession tonight,” Lieutenant Anderson says to Hank, from where they’re stood in the corridor. He’s holding the forensics report in his hand, having fast-tracked the case load. “We don’t leave until we have it.”

This is the sort of investigator that Hank appreciates, although he does not understand the Lieutenant’s motivations on disturbing his own sleep patterns. The deviant’s stress levels are low enough that, were they to leave the interrogation until the morning, it would still have stable stress conditions.

Still, Hank is programmed to obey. And this order does not conflict with his mission from Cyberlife, so he offers a short nod.

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

Anderson looks at him. Still unreadable, even though on the drive back to the station, Hank had accessed articles on perceiving the emotions of people whose emotions are difficult to perceive.

“Did Cyberlife install any programmes relating to interrogations in your software?” The lieutenant asks, and he is watching Hank, but for what, the android is uncertain.

“I have several programmes that offer expertise in extracting information from deviants.”

A pause. Hank is not capable of feeling, but he supposes one could call such a silence distressing.

“A simply yes would suffice,” Anderson says. He turns, heads towards the door of the interrogation scene. “We’ll have to put those programmes to use then.”

The man explains how he wants the interrogation to go. First, the Lieutenant will enter alone, go through the common procedures – there’s little legislation within police code on android crimes, since deviancy is still so _new,_ and so it’s up to Anderson to decide how to progress.

“The deviant believes it’s feeling in the same way as humans,” the Lieutenant says, “so we give it a human interrogation. I believe it’ll react more positively if we treat it’s faulty programming as more than what it is.”

Hank does not see the point of treating a machine as more than what it is, but a part of him realises arguing this point will result in wasted time and the lieutenant’s disapproval.

“I’ll ask some initial questions,” Anderson continues, “in which you’ll monitor its responses in the side room. When I’m ready, I’ll signal for you to come inside, and we’ll conduct the interrogation together.”

“Lieutenant,” Hank says, “the likelihood of success rises drastically if only one of us is in the room with the deviant.”

The man turns to him, brown eyes piercing through him. Hank might be unable to read the emotions inside of them, but the Lieutenant seems capable of reading _him._ It seems, almost, as if the Lieutenant is testing him.

“We both go into the interrogation room, Hank.” He does not budge. “Or you do not go in at all.”

His voice is authoritative, leads no leeway for Hank to decide on how best to adjust his explanations. Without an understanding of the man’s psychology, it is impossible to conclude how best to change the Lieutenant’s mind.

Mission Objective: _Extract deviant confession._

The chances of success are lower than they could be, but the percentage is still favourable.

“I understand, Lieutenant.” Hank says. “I will wait in the side room.”

* * *

The side room is much smaller than the interrogation room. There are two chairs within the room, each already taken – one by Detective Miller, and the other by a man that diagnostics reveal to be Detective Gavin Reed – and so Hank decides to stand.

As he waits for the Lieutenant to start his interrogation, Hank assesses the androids stress levels. It’s at 28%, lower now that they are away from the crime scene. Considering the drop in stress levels, Hank decides it might have been counterproductive to choose this room for an interrogation – they’re going to have to work harder to reach optimal stress levels.

“Oh we’ve got a plastic pet Chris,” Detective Reed says, as he turns from the screen to look at Hank. His emotions are easy to read, the hostility open in his expression. Anti-android perhaps? Or simply a hostile person in general?

Detective Miller turns to look at Hank for a few seconds. He says, “he’s assigned to work the case with the Lieutenant.”

Reed lets out a snort. It’s an unpleasant sound, filled with what Hank identifies to be contempt and irritability.

“About fucking time, they got Connor a babysitter.” The detective says, crossing his arms. “Fowler should have given him an android instead of a promotion, everyone knows that.”

Hank blinks. Information shows that Fowler relates to the Detroit police’s captain, Jeffrey Fowler, a man who’d previously worked within the Army and U.S. Air Force.  He’s a valued member of the DPD, and as such, Hank is surprised to find that his decision towards the Lieutenant is being questioned.

“It is not within my programming to babysit anyone detective,” Hank says from his area.

“Yeah well, maybe you’re due a fucking upgrade,” Detective Reed continues. His eyes are narrowed, fingers curling in on himself. In his enraged state, the detective does not seem to notice that his nails are digging into his sleeves. “Either way, I didn’t fucking ask. Plastic prick.”

Hank presses his lips together. Not exactly irate, since his model is not capable of emotional responses, but certainly _affected_ by the hostility being thrown his way.

Detective Reed seems like he’s going to say something else but falls short as Lieutenant Anderson heads into the room. His eyes narrow even further, glare even more intense.

It does not take any social programming systems to conclude the detective holds little regard for Anderson.

“Get a load of this asshole,” Reed mutters under his breath.

The Lieutenant takes his seat opposite the deviant, places the file on the table, and takes a moment to just sit.

He glances to the glass barrier, almost as if trying to see if anyone is stood watching – impossible, Hank knows. An entirely unreasonable action, although he can’t be sure if the Lieutenant is doing so, searching for something, or simply to see his own reflection.

Whatever it is, he turns to the deviant after a few seconds. He explains the police protocol, the precedence he has for conducting an interrogation. There is no false information about brokering deals, and the explanation is finished in an efficient manner.

“What the fuck is he doing that for?” Reed mutters. “It’s a fucking android, it doesn’t have rights. Why aren’t we just forcing the information out of it. Push it around a little.”

From the back of the room, Hank’s cold voice: “Android’s don’t feel pain, detective. You’d only end up damaging it.”

Reed huffs.

Inside with the deviant, Anderson remains oblivious to his colleague’s irritation. The man places both hands on the table, clasped together, his body language open. Even with all his modified body language however, Hank can’t see how he’ll be able to appear open without his expression shifting as well.

“What should I call you?” The Lieutenant asks.

The deviant hasn’t offered any response since it had begged Hank not to turn it over to the police, but now, it glances up. It’s LED goes from red, to yellow, back to red. The colour change is unlike anything Hank has experienced relating to deviants.

The question has temporarily calmed it, before resulting to a 2% increase in stress levels _. 30%._ The deviant does not speak, but eye contact is half the battle in getting these faulty androids to speak, and the Lieutenant has gained it with only five words.

Hank is beginning to understand why the man has received his rank so young.

“I know your model and serial number.” The Lieutenant opens the file, breaks eye contact to glance at the printed information on their suspect. To Hank’s surprise, the android’s gaze remains on Anderson’s form. “But I don’t particularly feel like I should call you by those.”

The man lifts his gaze up, meeting the deviant’s eyes. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

The deviant blinks. It opens its mouth but falls short. Then, after a few seconds of hesitation, there is muffled speech. Hank is certain he is only capable of picking up on the words because his auditory sensors are so fine-tuned.

“He didn’t give me a name.” The deviant mutters. “There is nothing to call me by but my model.”

Hank cannot see how this will benefit them within the interrogation, but there must be a point. Is it to guarantee the deviants attention? Or is it to ensure he can build a sort of rapport with the killer? He is uncertain of the Lieutenant’s motivations.

_Software Instability ^^^_

“Carlos Ortiz is dead.” The Lieutenant says. The deviant flinches back, the words are not particularly harsh, but they are firm and… unwavering. “He is no longer your owner, if you want me to call you by a name then I will. If not, I’ll call you HK400.”

Urgency.

“I don’t want to be called HK400.” The deviant says. “I – I… Henry. That seems – I want to be called Henry.”

A nod.

Lieutenant Anderson says, “and in return, you may call me Connor.”

Throwing his rank aside? Hank still cannot see how this benefits the case – If anything, it is leading to a decrease in the deviant’s stress levels. It has fallen from 30% to 23%. The likelihood of the deviant confessing is… low.

“Thank you.” The deviant – no, Henry – mumbles.

“Now Henry,” the Lieutenant continues, “Carlos Ortiz. You’re owner. What can you tell me about him?”

Henry falls into silence. He shakes his head, as if shaking the memory of his owner away, and does not show any sign of speaking. When Anderson asks another question, trying to confirm the deviant’s culpability, Henry breaks eye contact.

Lieutenant Anderson’s fingers tap against the table, repeating a pattern that Hank’s processors quickly identify as Morse code, ‘ _i-t i-s o-k-a-y’,_ before turning to the screen again.

“Hank,” he says.

Hank takes it as the invitation to join him that he’s been awaiting. He stands, spares a single glance towards the two detectives, before heading to join the Lieutenant.

* * *

Perhaps there is a reason behind his previous conversation however, because as soon as Hank steps into the room, fingerprints allowing him access, the deviant turns to Connor and opens its mouth.

“What is he doing here?”

The Lieutenant turns, glances towards Hank and watches him closely. The deviant seems to follow suit, mimicking the man’s movements. While turning to watch Hank, responding to a new stimulus is natural, it’s body language is not.

Where the Lieutenant has his hands on the table, one hand still tapping the same code, the other clasped around his wrist, the deviant follows suit. Almost unconsciously, it follows his tapping. As if confirming the Lieutenant’s own message.

Is this a planned response that the Lieutenant is receiving, or simply, a coincidence? Either way, it’s giving Hank the stable conditions to begin his own questioning.

Just like Lieutenant Anderson had promised to give him.

“This is Hank,” the man answers, “we’re working together to solve this case. To learn the truth behind what happened.”

The deviant looks away from Hank. It focuses back on the Lieutenant, watching him, searching for anything that would give him reason to distrust him. It does not seem to find what it’s searching for, and leans back against the chair, almost as if placated.

It’s stress level does not fall, but it doesn’t rise either.

“Why don’t you grab a chair Hank,” the Lieutenant says. It is phrased as a suggestion, but Hank sees it for what it is. An order.

He turns. In the corner of the room, there is a small collapsible chair. It’s plastic, and like the rest of the interrogation room, grey.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he says. It does not take long to join the Lieutenant, sitting rigid against his side. When he does, he takes the time to look at the file the Lieutenant has brought with him. He looks over photos of the crime scene, glances at the forensics report.

Then, he takes a moment to analyse the deviant. Injured, as the signs of thirium would have suggested. Cigarette burns are littered across one arm, and on the other, the wiring of the deviant’s arm is on show. Thirium drips from the wound every time the deviant adjusts its arm, but it’s not bleeding profusely enough that Hank is worrying about its thirium levels.

Anderson turns to him, offers a small nod. It’s a permission for him to start.

Hank does. He brings up the deviant’s stress levels – 23% - and concludes his best chance of raising it to the optimal level is by applying pressure. He can use the photographs first, and so he does, picking them up, and depositing them in front of the deviant’s gaze.

“Do you recognise this man?”

The deviant’s stress level rises up to 26% at the sight of the photographs alone. Is it because of the sight of an abusive owner, or rather, the knowledge that it had orchestrated this murder?

“It’s Carlos Ortiz,” Hank continues, placing a finger down onto the photo, just above the hollowed face of the victim. “Stabbed, twenty-eight times. Behind him – these words written on the wall in his blood.”

28%.

The number is not high enough for Hank to press for full answers yet, so he’ll just have to continue raising it.

“You’re damaged,” Hank continues now. While he could simply pass a single glance at the deviant’s wounds, he decides to make it more obvious. Open stares designed to make the deviant _squirm._ He waits, watches for any signs of distress – a 4% increase. “Did your owner do that?”

From beside him, Lieutenant Anderson, pauses in his tapping against the table. He says, “Henry… did he beat you?”

Almost as quickly as he stops the tapping, he resumes it again.

And while the deviant does not answer them verbally, Hank realises that his mimicking of the Lieutenant’s finger tapping changes, Morse code ringing out _y-e-s_. A confession that almost seems… subconscious.

Hank can’t linger on this though, needs to further the interrogation. He says, “I’ve run a diagnostic on your programming, and have located an instability. It can cause an unpleasant feeling in androids.”

The deviant’s eyes flicker from Anderson, to him. Hank meets it’s gaze without so much as blinking.

“Like fear, in humans.”

This does not seem to have much of an impact on it. A shame, since Hank had been hoping that might raise alarm. Instead, the deviant’s stress level is at 36%. Not high enough.

Hank wonders whether it would be higher if the Lieutenant were not in the room. Instead, the two of them together are incapable of reaching optimal stress levels. Well – Hank does have another possibility that he can use.

“Alright,” he says, sitting back. He crosses his arms and attempts to look displeased by the events. “If you don’t wish to confess, I will merely have to probe your memory.”

The hand that the deviant was previously tapping flinches out. Locks around the Lieutenant’s wrist with so much force that the there is a high probability that the skin will be bruised.

Should the force have used shorter constraints, to ensure the android would not have the reach for the Lieutenant – or had the Lieutenant intentionally placed his hands close enough to the deviant?

“Please don’t let him do that,” the deviant begs, and he’s back to looking at Anderson now, gaze searching for assurance in the Lieutenant’s expression. There is no leeway though, no hidden creases in the man’s features that could be perceived as a promise.

_Stress levels: 48%. 2% increase necessary to reach optimal stress._

“I need you to give me something Henry,” the Lieutenant says. “Helping us understand what happened here, is your best chance of getting through things smoothly.”

The deviant reels back. Let’s go of the Lieutenant. “I – I can’t–”

The Lieutenant glances down at the case file. He grabs both the photographs, makes a show of placing them back in the folder and closes it. Then, he pulls his chair out, letting the metal scrape across the floor.

“If you can’t, then we’re done here.”

The man places both palms against the desk, starts to push himself up. He’s halfway to standing as the deviant let’s out a small whine, the word _‘wait’_ staggered as it startles.

Anderson holds the deviant’s gaze, lowers back into his chair. He waits.

“I- What are you going to do to me?” The android shudders. It’s temperature settings are turned off, so Hank knows the movement is not caused by the cold. This must be the result of it’s deviancy, caused by simulated fear. “You’re going to deactivate me, aren’t you?”

Lieutenant Anderson does not speak, not until the silence has stretched, the question vibrating between the three in the room. He redirects, asks, “are you afraid to die, Henry?”

The deviant stills. This time, the yes is not tapped in code, but spoken, a quiet whisper.

“You are a machine,” Hank says, “you are not alive, and so, are incapable of dying.”

The Lieutenant spares him a fleeting glance.

“I don’t want to die–”

“We’ll do what we can Henry,” The Lieutenant says, “just open up to us.”

Hank gives the android ten seconds to respond, but with no response, he leans forward and grabs the androids arm instead, readying to probe its memory.

“Hank.” The Lieutenant’s tone shifts. Only minutely, but there is a difference in pitch. “What are you doing?”

“Probing its memory Lieutenant.” Hank responds, as he removes the artificial skin on his hand, making it possible to create a pathway that will allow him to interface. “The deviant shows no signs of confessing, and so I will access its memory stores. The possibility of success is highest with this route.”

The deviant tries to pull away, but Hank tightens his grip, pushes past the initial firewalls the deviant has set up and forces his way into its memory store.

“Stop – we’re not probing the suspect.” Anderson says. A pause, and then there is heat against his hand, as the Lieutenant tries to pull him away. He fails in doing so. The Lieutenant is not as strong as Hank is, does not have the metal alloys that enable higher strength performance. “I’m ordering you to stop.”

Hank considers the order, realises that it conflicts with that of Cyberlife’s directive and proceeds with probing the android’s memory. He says, “that goes against my mission objective, Lieutenant.”

He reaches the memory core. Opens and focuses.

_Flashes of blue – blood. Carlos Ortiz attacking. Bat in hand._

_It’snotfairit’snotfairwhywhywhy._

_Fight back. Knife. Scared, stab, again. More blood. Red, red blood. Not mine. Not safe, must hide, must escape. But first, a message._

**_I AM ALIVE._ **

Hank lets the android go, retracts his hand and glances at between both the Lieutenant and the deviant. It’s stress levels have reached 100%, and as such, self-destruction is imminent. But Hank has the memories of the murder, has extracted them, and as such the interrogation will no longer need to continue.

“I have obtained its memories Lieutenant,” Hank says now. He says, “A confession is no longer necessary.”

_Mission objective [Extract deviant confession] successful._

The Lieutenant does not look at him. Instead, he watches the deviant for any signs of emotion, waits for the fall out Hank is certain will occur within seconds.

“I think it’s about time you left now, Hank.” He says. Again, it is said as a suggestion, but is in fact an order.

“Yes Lieutenant,” he says, since the order no longer conflicts that of Cyberlife’s directive. “It is only logical to leave now that the interrogation is over.”

He goes to stand, heads towards the door.

It is as he presses his hand against the door that the deviant begins to self-destruct. Thirium splatters across the table with every movement. Hank turns to watch the deviant as it thumps against the desk, watches.

Lieutenant Anderson, still sat at the table, stands. Thirium is splashed against his shirt already, staining it blue. He turns to the screen, as if he can see the detective’s behind and says, “I need some help in here.”

Anderson cuts across the table, heads towards the deviant and tries to stop the movement. Seconds later, as Detective Miller heads inside the room, Reed following at a slower pace behind, he seems to give up and says, “Get the cuffs off, we need to get him away from the table.”

Detective Miller must be the one with the key to the cuffs, because he steps forward.

“I’ll get the table moved back,” the Lieutenant says, heading back to his side of the table, hands gripping against the side of the table. His hands are slick with thirium. “Be quick.”

For all he tries to be quick, Miller stumbles with retrieving the key. He manages though, before the android can destruct fully, and pushes the key into the lock, attempting to pull the deviant backwards.

Hank’s preconstruction programming predicts what’s going to happen seconds before the action occurs. He steps forward, raises a hand, “Detective, your firearm–”

There is the sound of a gunshot.

_System shutdown – recalibrating._

Hank collapses to the floor.

_[Upload memories to new RK800 model?]_

* * *

**_A c c e s s i n g D a t a F i l e s_ **

_Recalibrating RK800 model: Hank._

_Incorporating case files from case file #46921 into memory files. Attachments: crime scene photos / interrogation footage. Replay interrogation footage?_

_L o a d i n g . . ._

* * *

The camera footage registers the sound of the gunshot but does not show the android’s lifeless body. The momentum of the shot through his forehead has forced Hank’s body to fall backwards, landing just outside of the room the interrogation is being placed in.

The deviant has grabbed Detective Miller’s gun, and following the shot at Hank, points the gun towards Lieutenant Anderson. The Lieutenant’s eyes widen ever so slightly, but he does not appear overly tense.

This is body language that should be later analysed.

“Henry,” the Lieutenant says, “this isn’t the only way out of this.”

The deviant’s finger remains resting by the trigger, but it does not make any attempt to push it. Instead, it opens its mouth. The words do not seem to make their way out though.

“Put the gun down Henry,” Anderson continues. The idea of a human trying to reason with a machine possessing faulty programming is… _wrong._ “You don’t have to do this.”

The android shifts the gun. It is at a slightly lower angle than before – if it were to shoot now, from this directory, the shot will hit either the stomach or the left kidney depending on trajectory.

“I don’t want to die, Conn–”

Another gunshot.

The deviant collapses inward, onto the table that it had previously been smashing its head into. Slowly, almost as if the movement is mechanical, the Lieutenant turns.

Detective Reed puts his gun back into it’s holster. He says, “fucking androids.”

“Detective,” Anderson says, slowly, “you shot my suspect.”

Reed turns, eyes narrowed at the Lieutenant’s words. Of those still alive in the room, he is the only one without a trace of thirium on him. His hands ball into fists, and as if aware of such involuntary anger, the detective shoves both hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Chris,” Reed says, turning to Detective Miller. “Turn the fuckin camera off – we’re not getting anything out of these two anymore.”

Miller takes one more look at the deceased deviant and nods his head. Almost eager to get out of the room, he says ‘of course’, before racing towards the exit. With the man gone, Reed now turns back to Lieutenant Anderson.

“I just saved your fucking life you piece of shit,” he says, shaking his head. “That android would have shot if we gave it a chance, so quit bitching about it.”

There is a pause. The Lieutenant reaches to wipe thirium from his cheek. He says, “you destroyed a valuable piece of evidence.”

Now Detective Reed crosses his arms, he takes a step closer to Anderson, looming over him.

“Evidence means nothing if your dead Connor,” he says, the sound low, hostile. “It’s just a fucking piece of plastic, they both were.”

The video feed cuts out.

.

.

_Software Instability ^^^_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter update! Thanks for the feedback you've all given me! I'm super happy that you're all enjoying the fic so far.
> 
> Ok. Let's get a few things clear for the status of this AU. Unlike David Cage's brilliant original timeline - note my sarcasm? - the android revolution isn't going to take place over the span of a week. This fic's gonna be more... realistic and draw that entire process out a little longer.
> 
> With a longer time frame, it means more cases. So expect parts of the fic to divert and offer cases that I'm genuinely surprised never made their way into the game. (This also means this fic's probably gonna be a long one.)
> 
> As with the previous chapters, the title is influenced by a jazz song. This time it's a lyric from Louis Armstrong's, 'Do Nothin' Till You Hear From Me'.

**Part Three**

_‘Pay no attention to what’s said.’_

 

Serenity.

The state of being calm, peaceful and untroubled.

It is this word that his programming brings up as he arrives in the zen garden, a middle ground between Hank and Cyberlife where he can meet his… handler is not quite the right word, but boss is not right either… and give reports.

Amanda is in here somewhere, and it is up for Hank to give her information on the case he has just worked with Carlos Ortiz’s deviant android. To tell her of the information he’d managed to extract before it had self-destructed.

The garden is pristine. Amanda spends most of her time making sure it is in working order, clipping rose bushes so they are ordered. Looking around, Hank supposes one would even call this area beautiful.

There are cherry blossom trees, pink blossoms clinging to the trees, unwilling to fall and accept that the world outside has is shifting into winter. Hank does not offer much thought on the difference in season, and heads further inward, searching for Amanda.

His newest objective: _Meet with Amanda._

It’s not the most active of missions, not in comparison to investigative work, but it is necessary all the same. He decides to search the centre of the garden for Amanda, her most common location when they’ve met with one another.

There centre of the zen garden is a small island, the same size as the interrogation room had been, which is only accessible by bridge. It’s white, pristine marble that’s smooth – too smooth – to be anything but simulated.

Glancing off the edge of the water, at the steady flow of the water, he spots fish swimming against the current. They look realistic, but having seen real fish previously in the aquarium, Hank cannot help but see them for what they are. Replicas.

He decides to continue towards Amanda. He can see her now, stood with her back to him, pruning the climbing roses that are interwoven into a white, diagonal lattice fence. She places the roses she cuts onto a small table beside her – one glance shows diseased stalks. She’s removing that which poisons the rest of the plant.

_(She will do the same with him, if he does not prove his usefulness.)_

“Hello, Amanda.”

She takes a moment to finish clipping a rose, before turning to face him. She doesn’t smile, not entirely, but there is some part of her that seems pleased.

“Hank,” the woman says, lifting the rose she’s holding close, as if she will be able to determine its scent. It seems an oddly human behaviour. “It’s good to see you.”

Hank nods his head in response.

Out of the corner of his eye, one of his programmes automatically runs a scan on his status with Amanda, their relationship together. It always does this automatically within the zen garden, is where most of his programming checks itself, ensuring that everything is working as it should.

**Amanda. Status: Trusted.**

She turns back to her roses, clipping away more diseased stalks. A loud snip sounds before she says, “your predecessor was unfortunately destroyed.”

Her tone is disappointed. It sends a chill down Hank’s spine, and for a moment, he feels as if he could very easily become the rose that she is clipping, from the overall plant that is Cyberlife. He’ll have to succeed in his mission next time, to avoid such a matter.

“It knew that deviants could be unpredictable,” Amanda continues, shaking her head, “but it wasn’t careful enough. I hope you won’t make the same mistake.”

Hank won’t.

Dying does not help move him towards his mission. Hank knows this, knows that every time he reuploads himself into a new Hank model, he’s at risk of his memory drives losing smaller details. With every death, he risks losing details that could lead to sufficient evidence.

“I don’t intend to.” Hank says.

“It will be better for both you and your investigation if you avoid being destroyed again.” Amanda says, a reminder. Even though they both know that Hank understands this, she repeats it, a silent reminder that he can be easily replaced by Cyberlife if he does not fulfil his purpose.

“I understand.” Hank says.

Amanda clips another rose, places it among the others. Then, she reaches forward and cuts away the dying roots behind.

“The case seemed… interesting. Tell me Hank, what did you make of the deviant?”

Hank considers the memory files he’s had uploaded into his stores, glancing over the case file. Somehow, there is simultaneously too much information regarding the deviant, and not enough. He sifts through it, considering what the best response will be.

“It displayed reactions akin to PTSD in humans, following abuse from its owner. I believe that this was the emotional shock that caused its deviancy.”

Amanda nods. Then:

“Lieutenant Anderson has been permanently assigned to work the deviancy cases. What do you make of him?”

There is insufficient information on the Lieutenant for Hank to form an analysis. He seems focused on solving the case, which should lead to a positive outlook for the deviancy cases they come across. But the way he works does not seem to be compatible to Hank’s own programming.

Other than that, he still hasn’t got much of a handle on the man’s personality. There’s still so much he needs to investigate relating to Anderson. He’ll have to investigate and see what he can conclude on the man during their next meeting.

“I’ve yet to receive the definitive information to form an opinion on him,” Hank says, considering the man in more detail. He does not mention how his system had been unable to place the man’s regard to him, does not want to see Amanda’s response to such a declaration. “He does, however, have an unusual method to interrogation.”

At the word ‘unusual’, Amanda turns back to face him, lips in a tight line as she looks him up and down. She says, “we have no choice but to work with him. It’s unfortunate, but he has seniority to Cyberlife on these cases. What do you think is the best approach?”

Hank considers his options. Adapting to the Lieutenant’s behaviour would be an ideal outcome, except, without an understanding behind the man’s disposition, he cannot change his behaviours. Refusing to adapt however could lead to a clash in investigative approaches, leading to incidents like that from the day before.

“I will remain indifferent,” Hank says, not because he believes he should, but because Amanda is watching him, and he does not have the time to come up with a more efficient solution. From the slight curl of her lips, it seems this approach pleases her. “As long as I complete my mission, the Lieutenant is not important.”

Except, already, Hank knows that he is. There is so much for him to consider, too much for him to adjust to when he meets the man again, if he wants to complete his mission in an effective way.

“More and more androids are showing signs of deviancy,” Amanda says, more serious now. She’s refocusing him onto the mission, reminding him of everything that’s at stake, even if she doesn’t need to. “There are millions in circulation. If they become unstable the consequences for Cyberlife will be disastrous.”

He knows why she’s telling him this. As the most advanced prototype Cyberlife has released to date, Hank is the one with the highest likelihood of success. It’s not bragging, but simply looking at how his model, the RK800 brand is more superior to other androids.

If anyone can figure out the deviant crisis, it is him.

Hank nods. Amanda can count on him, and they both know it. He doesn’t need to offer words of promise; his actions will prove his capabilities.

“Pick up where your predecessor left off Hank. And put a stop to all of this.” Amanda waits for his confirmation that he will do as such, places her cutters onto the table beside him and heads toward the bridge, leaving their conversation.

As she reaches the bridge though, she turns, eyebrows furrowed. Not in concern, or hesitation, but in a way that urges sudden action. He does not want to displease her. Hank is not sure if this is part of his programming – it must be, androids feel nothing – but he wants to please Amanda, does not want to disappoint.

“Hurry, Hank.” She says, “There isn’t much time.”

* * *

He opens his eyes, pulled out of the zen garden and is greeted with a beeping sound. The self-driving taxi he’s been travelling in alerts him that Hank has reached his destination.

Hank does not pay, knows that Cyberlife will cover the expenses, and heads out of the car. Once again, he is looking at the police station. Except, realistically, this is his first time seeing it. How strange to have memories that he’s never lived. Hank grasps the concept, concludes it’s not relevant and leaves it behind with the cab.

The slight rumble of an engine and then the taxi is gone.

Heading in to the police station, Hank processes all the information that would not have been present during the night shift of the department. It is early, ten minutes shy of nine a.m. and as such there is a bustle of officers arriving at the station. They are more awake than the night shift, who stumble out of the station, dark circles beneath their eyes due to the alteration to their circadian rhythms.

Hank spots the help desk, joins the small queue and waits for assistance. He glances around the station’s waiting area, at human’s waiting to be seen. Since he is essentially a temporary member of the force, at least for this case, Hank assumes that he’ll be able to bypass any waiting.

But that will be after he receives the permissions the first time.

The line is fast moving, and Hank steps forward to the front desk in no less than three minutes, fifty seconds. He steps forward, glances towards the secretary at the front desk – an android – and waits for it to greet him a good morning.

“I’m here to see Lieutenant Connor Anderson,” Hank says, by way of greeting.

“Do you have authorisation?” The secretary asks. It’s an ST 300 model, designed to perform secretarial tasks within companies and to fill any roles that are deemed ‘unnecessary’ for humans to perform. He nods his head, and as soon as it asks for proof of his identification, Hank opens a link for the two to communication.

It feels more like language that speaking does. Interfacing and wireless communication is a language unto itself, one that only androids can partake in. While androids don’t use it very often – humans think it rude and as such, it’s only used when they’re not present, lest their owners feel uncomfortable – it has its usefulness.

“Lieutenant Anderson’s clocked in so far this morning. You should be able to find him at his desk.”

Hank considers thanking the android, but it is futile thanking machines and so he simply nods instead. It points him towards a barrier, tells him to head down the corridor and take the first left.

He does. He scans the room for any sign of the Lieutenant, cannot find him and so settles on searching for the man’s desk instead. He weaves through the desks until he finally finds the name _‘Lt. C. Anderson’_ engraved into a plate on a desk.

Hank traces his finger across the name. The ‘ _Lt.’_ has been scratched out, and while a scan does not show any fingerprints, it does inform him that a key had been used to disfigure the title.

Clearly it is not just the public that think the Lieutenant is not fit for such a title. Lieutenant Anderson seems to receive animosity from many of his co-workers as well. Although, there is a possibility that one of Anderson’s previous suspects had defaced the nameplate.

Hank sits in the seat beside the Lieutenant’s desk, glances around the room. His optical processor quickly picks up on multiple maintenance issues within the area. There’s a faulty lightbulb, which keeps flickering, a shift between bright and moderately bright. Hank is uncertain whether a human’s optical nerves would be able to separate the difference in the brightness however, and as such, it is unlikely to be replaced.

Beyond that, he can see a sign over one of the printers that says _out of order,_ with a time stamp beneath it, letting the staff know how long it hasn’t been working for. Probably so they can let maintenance know if the issue is not dealt with within an efficient time.

The issue must not bother the Lieutenant however, since his desk has a printer in the corner.

Hank stands. If he must wait for Anderson, then he’ll see if he can discover anything that might help him understand the man better. He cranes his neck, glances at the desk and finds… very little.

Most officers tend to have pictures of family members on their desk, or some sort of decoration that makes it appear as their own, but the Lieutenant’s desk is absent of any photo frames.

There are two filing trays on his desk, both equally full, although the files in one tray are thinner than those in the other. The cases he’s assigned then. There are a lot in what seems to be his assigned tray. The caseload also seems higher than those on other desks. The result of being a Lieutenant, or merely the result of a workaholic with a high case turnover?

Other than the pens stored in a silver pot – all with black ink – there is little else on the Lieutenant’s desk. The keyboard in front of the man’s terminal has letters partially rubbed off from overuse, but with such a profession, it’s only to be expected.

He takes a step further, cranes his neck around the case files and spots a folder off the side. It’s not a case file, it’s bigger than they usually are, but rather a lever arch file. It is labelled _‘Police procedure – Androids.’_

The folder is not full, but there is enough information inside. A scan into police files shows that it is mandatory for every precinct to have online access and a printed version of the document available for use within the precinct.

Hank connects to the precinct’s database, accesses the file. There is little information that is relevant to deviant cases, as most of the information is legislation relating to rightful ownership of androids, and where to ship androids following an owner’s crime.

He closes out of the file, steps away from the desk. A coat hangs on the Lieutenant’s chair, small strands of hair on the sleeves. Dog hairs. The Lieutenant owns a dog – a Saint Bernard.

Footsteps register in his audio processor, and Hank turns, glancing around. Surely enough, there is Lieutenant Anderson, heading towards his desk. His eyes widen, the movement minute but present, and Hank nods his head as he says good morning.

“You…” Anderson trails off, takes a moment to consider his words. “You were killed, and yet you’re back so soon.”

Hank wonders whether the man had been expecting him to return at all. He’s not certain, but he suspects not. Most androids are incapable of returning after death, not with the same memories. Hank is one of a kind in this manner.

“Yes,” Hank says. “My predecessor was unfortunately destroyed, but they uploaded its memories into me, so I could continue the investigation. The should not affect the case.”

The Lieutenant spares Hank another glance, before shaking his head. He doesn’t speak, simply brushes past Hank to settle against his desk.

“I’ll see to it that you’re assigned to a suitable partner,” Anderson says. He goes to unlock his terminal, only stopping when he realises Hank is watching him, unwilling to sit and wait for a new assignment.

“I do not need to be assigned a suitable partner,” Hank says, in response. “I have already been assigned to work with you.”

Anderson opens his mouth but does not respond. Not because the man cannot think of anything to say, but purely because his name is called before he can get the words out to respond.

 _“Connor,”_ Hank turns, registers that the voice belongs to Captain Fowler, and glances at the man who’s just stepped out of his office, holding open a glass door. “Get the fuck in here.”

Lieutenant Anderson shifts from watching Hank, to glancing towards the Captain. Then, pulling himself from his seat, he heads towards the office. Hank is fairly certain he catches the tail end of a sigh.

Of course, since they are to be partners for this investigation, Hank follows behind the man. He makes sure to close the door behind them both, stands where both humans have opted to sit.

Captain Fowler seems to have settled back into his seat, takes a moment to sip at the coffee that’s steaming against his mug, before placing it back on his desk. He leans forward, arms crossed as he makes eye contact with the Lieutenant.

“There’s always been a steady stream of android related cases reaching our desks,” Fowler says, forgoing any small talk. Anderson is rigid in his seat, not tense, but respectful, watching the Captain carefully. “Usually it’s just an android gone missing, or disputes over who keeps possession of the thing following court proceedings. We can send those cases off to a different fucking department. But recently we’ve had changes to that. Assaults. Homicides like last night.”

Connor meets the Captain’s gaze. Something more rests in the silent conversation they share. It’s the human equivalent to telecommunications. Something that Hank is not capable of understanding.

“We can’t hand these cases off anymore, they’re no longer just a Cyberlife problem.” The Captain pauses. He shakes his head. “They’re criminal investigations. I want you to investigate these cases Connor – I know that you’ll get through them before shit starts to hit the fan.”

The Lieutenant nods his head, interlocks his fingers in his lap. He says, “Understood Captain. I’ll get to work assigning the cases and heading the investigations. Which detectives will be within my supervision?”

Fowler pauses. He says, “Cyberlife sent that android. It’s a prototype, you’ll have him.”

Fingernails dig into Anderson’s skin, the bones from his fingers tensing, locking into place. “You want me to do these cases on my own?”

“You’ve got the fucking android.”

Anderson glances back at Hank, holds the androids gaze for a few seconds before turning back. He says, “I don’t think you understand Captain. There are hundreds of cases relating to androids, and with the influx in android crimes, I’ll need detectives at my disposal.”

“Everyone’s overworked Connor,” Fowler says. He’s exasperated, irritated with the Lieutenant, even though the man’s objections are clearly founded. “If you can convince people to add to their caseloads, then fine. But this is your case, we don’t have the manpower for me to assign more people to it.”

Anderson is still, and Hank thinks he knows why. There are tensions within the precinct in relations to the Lieutenant, and so there is little chance that Anderson will be able to convince anyone to give him aid. From the few interactions Hank has seen the Lieutenant have with work colleagues, there is a lack of respect regarding the man.

“I understand, Captain.” Lieutenant Anderson says. He does not complain, accepts this without a word, understanding that there will be little help coming his way. “I’ll get to work right away.”

He stands, heads towards the exit. Fowler’s gaze follows the man, and it’s as Anderson reaches the door that the Captain speaks again.

“Listen Connor,” Fowler says, “you and I both know you deserved that promotion. You manage this case, you handle it atop your other duties and you’re assured to prove to everyone else you’re worthy of being a Lieutenant.”

“Right,” Anderson says, opening the door. “Got it.”

Hank lingers in the room following the Lieutenant’s exit, watches as the man returns to his desk. He briefly considers asking Fowler about the case files, before realising he’ll simply be sent back to Anderson.

Deciding that Fowler is a busy man, someone who probably wants Hank to show himself out, he offers a respectful nod. He says, “I’ll take my leave now. Have a good day, Captain.”

The Captain glances toward the terminal on his desk and does not give any response to Hank’s words. As such, the android pivots, exits the glass office and heads back towards Lieutenant Anderson’s desk.

The man is already working on the terminal as soon as Hank comes to a stop in front of him. What does Hank need to do to progress this case? He’ll need a desk, access to the case files that Anderson has been assigned.

Hank also adds the task of _check on Lt. Anderson,_ to his current tasks. During the conversation with Fowler, the Lieutenant had been more open with his displeasure – his face had not changed, but the tension in his fingers had expressed enough. But now they’re outside of the office, the man has become expediently difficult to read.

Is it related to the animosity he receives from those he works with? Or is it a certain element of trust, or friendship with the Captain? Hank is not certain.

“I’m looking forward to working alongside you Lieutenant,” Hank says, finally, pulling the man’s attention from the screen. “Seeing as we are partners now.”

Lieutenant Anderson rests his elbows on his desk, glancing Hank up and down. It is like the day before, when he’d sized him up in the aquarium, as if searching for qualities that would benefit their investigation. Now, he scrutinises more, unwilling to leave anything out of the way lest he miss anything important.

Hank will do the same, he knows, following their next investigations.

“The desk opposite me is free. You can work from it for the duration of the case,” Anderson says, finally. “I’ll allow you to choose which case file we should address first.”

Hank nods, heads toward the desk. It is not until he’s sitting down however, that wonders what the Lieutenant will be doing if Hank is searching through for the files for any cases that seem like they might have deviant involvement.

There is no reason not to ask, so as he sits, pulls the chair closer to the desk, he does. The Lieutenant offers a stare. Then, he turns back to his terminal screen, fingers tapping against the keyboard.

“I’m sorting the cases according to location, expected time they’d take to wrap up, and importance.” The man says.

“If you allow me to do that task Lieutenant,” Hank says, “then I predict it will take me approximately 112 seconds to sort two hundred case files by the criteria you’ve supplied.”

The Lieutenant continues typing as if he hasn’t heard such a thing. Then, he says, “that’s not necessary Hank. Choose the case you want to work on.”

“It will be more time efficient Lieu-”

“Pick a case.”

Hank sighs. His previous conclusion that the Lieutenant would be an understanding partner has been replaced with the theory that he is in fact, very rigid with his own investigative patterns. Hank will just have to sort through these files without the Lieutenant’s permission.

It is for the benefit of the case, and as such, will benefit Lieutenant Anderson.

Perhaps this time can be used to learn more about Anderson during this time. He turns his head, watches as the man continues typing.

“You have a dog,” Hank says, “right? There are dog hairs on your coat.”

“I really don’t see how this is relevant.”

“What’s its name?” Hank says. At the blank expression he receives, he tries to explain. “I believe in order for us to work well together, we must learn about one another, Lieutenant.”

This time, the sigh Hank hears is audible. It is the first proper reveal of emotion that the Lieutenant offers him. His processors register it as exasperation.

“His name is Sumo.” Anderson says. “The dog. He’s… Sumo.”

What else to ask him about? Hank is not certain it would be appropriate to bring up the lack of respect the Lieutenant is given by his co-workers, not when said co-workers are all around them, focused on their own work. It’s a conversation for outside of the precinct.

Hank presses the terminal, his fingerprint registering as a log in to the system. Immediately, his attention focuses on a red triangle at the top of the screen, the word _‘restricted access’_ written in bold red letters.

Of the hundreds of cases mentioned within Fowler's office, there are only seventy-six available for inspection. Hank glances at the terminal, frowns. An inconvenience.

“Lieutenant,” Hank says, “it seems that I have been placed under restricted access. Is it possible for you to remove these settings?”

Anderson looks at him. He says, “It is, but I won’t.”

“I do not understand.”

Now, the man pushes back from his desk, swivels his chair so he’s looking Hank in the eye. He says, “you’re on restricted access for the time being, I put you on it. You’ll only see cases after I’ve decided you can see them, you’ll only be capable of submitting evidence if I’ve okayed it, and your permissions to interrogate suspects has been suspended for the time being.”

Hank’s LED flashes yellow, remains that colour as he processes the information. He cannot see the purpose of such restrictions, cannot see how this will benefit the case.

“I cannot fulfil my mission with these restrictions in place Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant’s lips tighten, press into a thin line. Hank tries to scan, to read his stress levels, but like before, his systems have trouble defining his expression. All he knows is that the man’s stress level is higher than it had been yesterday.

“You disobeyed my orders yesterday,” Anderson says. Flippant. “When I believe you’ll be less likely to disobey my orders in the future, then I’ll slowly revoke the restrictions. Until then, they’re going to remain.”

Hank knows that arguing is not a good response in situations like this, but he needs to offer some sort of response.

“This outcome is bred from irrationality, Lieutenant Anderson.” He says, “with a heavy case load, I should be given general permissions to aid in solving the deviant crisis.”

“Listen Hank,” Anderson says. His tone is firm, no pretence of a statement hidden as a suggestion. An order. “Yesterday you disobeyed a direct order, an action with led to evidence and _your own predecessor_ being destroyed. With such a heavy case load, I require someone I can trust. That’s not irrational – I would place the same restrictions on any officers I was supervising.”

And yet Hank is not an officer. He is a machine, a machine that’s main mission now has a lower likelihood of success.

“You’ll remain with limited access until I’m certain you’re not going to do more harm to my investigation than good. Are we clear Hank?”

There is nothing Hank can do but comply, inconveniencing as it may be. Even with Cyberlife’s instructions, he cannot progress the case without access to files and police permissions. There are no ways around the restrictions.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Good,” Anderson says. “Now pick a case.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author loves comments.


End file.
